The Argosy, Vol. 82, No. 3 — page 99: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

HIS MAD MOVE ON THE MOVIES. “Ts the company in the know, Jimmy?” he asked, eyeing Morely. “The company is here to see the show,” Darton explained, “Well? I’ve won some- thing—eh?” Hendrix nodded with unusual gravity. “The big year is up, James, and you have won—something, yes. Not as much as you expected to win, perhaps, but you didn’t come out a loser.” “Did you get that?” Darton asked his friend, quite triumphantly. “Heaven be praised!” breathed the artist. Plump Mr. Hendrix pre-empted the arm- chair beside the table and pointed to the sofa where Morely sat. “You go over and camp beside your lit- tle friend, Jimmy, and I’ll tell you the worst in short order and then get back to work. I’ve no business being up-town at this time of day, but I promised you to bring the cash in person. Why on earth did you want cash anyway? Did that poor, cracked author-brain think it was going to gloat over a million or so?” ‘Maybe not. Go on, Petey.” “T bought a neat little note-book for ten cents a year ago, and kept a record of your particular case in it,” grunted Mr. Hendrix, as he opened the bag and placed it on his knees. ‘You can have it and read it, if you like; I’ve no time to spin the details now. Most of it was done in Paddlebury Steel, common—pyramiding it, you know. Here—catch!”’ A yellow bundle shot across the room and landed in Darton’s lap. “Vour original capital,’ explained the visitor. ‘Eight thousand. Here!” “What’s thise”’ “Five thousand dollars!” exclaimed Mr. Morely. ‘Did eight thousand actually earn that much in a year?” “Tt actually did!’’ said Mr. “Catch this, too.” “Another five?” ejaculated Darton. “No, another ten thousand!” corrected his second cousin. “Don’t drop ’em like that, put ’°em beside you. Next! Here she comes, Jimmy!” “Ten thousand more!” gasped the writer. “And still ten thousand more—which makes twenty-five thousand so far,” grunted the visitor, rummaging through his grip. “‘T—where the dickens is it? I’ve got all manner of junk in this bag; Ill have to clean it out and—”’ “Say! You’ve made twenty-five thou- Hendrix. 473 sand dollars!”’ Morely came near to scream- ing. Peter Hendrix glanced up with his placid baby smile. ‘““T knew it must be here somewhere,” he said. “Here, Jimmy—take this. It’s yours.” ‘“Thousand—dollar—gold-notes!” Dar- ton cried, with hoarse incredulity. ‘“Yes—eighty of them—eighty thousand dollars,” his second cousin explained bland- ly as he closed his grip. “I didn’t charge off any commissions, Jimmy, because it’s all in the family, so you get the whole benefit. Your eight thousand dollars made one hun- dred and five thousand dollars for you, and since you wanted it in cash you have it in cash. I should have done better than that for you, Jimmy; I would have done better, honestly, if we hadn’t been so infernally busy at the office all year long. Still, con- sidering —”’ “Petey! ” young Mr. Darton choked. “I —I can’t believe it yet! I don’t know how to thank you.” Hendrix looked at his watch, glanced up with mild astonishment and then arose, “Oh, that’s all right, Jimmy,” he said. ‘Do as much for you any time, you know. Bring me another eight thousand some day when we're not so rushed and perhaps I can make some real money for you. And now be a good little author and put it in the bank before somebody tries to get it away from you. Farewell, my son. Goodby, Morely. Yes, I’m awfully sorry to rush off like this, but I have a fortune of my own to accumulate.” He was gone. Darton stood by his open door until the elevator car had dropped from sight; when he closed the door he turned the key and regarded Morely with eyes that fairly glittered. “Say! Can you beat it?” coarsely in- quired the writer of some polite fiction. “I think you’re the luckiest thing on legs!”? Morely said. ‘“Why—why—there’s one hundred and thirteen thousand dollars on that table!” stammered Darton. ‘“That’s nearly an eighth of a million in real money, and it’s all mine.”’ ‘‘And what are you going to do with it?” Mr. Darton sat down beside his wealth and smiled softly—and more calmly—at his best friend. ‘“T may as well tell you now,” he said. “TI had a—sort of notion to keep it quiet COMMICLOOOKS (C@